Family Dynamics Part One
by englishtutor
Summary: In which John, Mary, and Sherlock learn what it means to be a family. Takes place immediately after "One To Spare". Further chapters take place after "Red-Handed".
1. Maternal Instincts

He heard her footsteps mounting the stairs just as he shoved the casserole dish into the oven. Perfect timing! He'd been engaged to be married to Mary Morstan for just two days now, but already they seemed to have settled into a pleasant haze of domestic bliss that flooded him with warmth. Sherlock had been particularly trying that day, and knowing Mary was home to inject sanity into the Baker Street flat filled him with inexplicable joy.

"Hullo, darling," she entered the kitchen and greeted John with a kiss. "Hard day at the office?" She could read him like a map. They had talked a great deal about how their marriage would affect Sherlock, and had agreed to spend as much time with the detective as they could to help their friend acclimate to the new situation. After all, when John quit his job at the clinic to work full-time with Sherlock, he would most likely actually be spending more time with his friend then he had before Mary had entered the picture. And Mary, when not at work, would be spending as much time as she could with the both of them. Reassuring Sherlock was their chief aim as they planned for their wedding day.

"He's been particularly intractable today," John murmured, not wanting the sharp-eared detective to overhear. "We don't currently have a case to keep him busy, so it's been all moaning about boredom for hours on end."

"Poor dear," Mary smiled, peeking into the sitting room at Sherlock, who was lying on the couch with his eyes closed, feigning coma. John wondered which of them her sympathy was directed towards. "He just wants your attention, that's all. Oh, and look! He's obviously got a head-ache. Look at the tension round his eyes."

John looked, and felt a bit guilty for not having noticed the signs earlier. "I suppose we've been arguing rather a lot today," he admitted.

"Whatever about?" Mary wanted to know.

John sighed. "He's refusing to go to my birthday party, even though he knows that's when we're going to formally announce our engagement."

Mary chuckled warmly. "Of course he's refusing to go. There'll be people there!" He huffed impatiently, and she put her arms around him affectionately. "Think of it this way: he never goes to your birthday parties. If he showed up at this one, everyone would know something was up. It would spoil the surprise announcement!"

John laughed reluctantly. "I suppose you're right," he acknowledged with a sigh.

Mary kissed him again. "I know you want him there by your side, showing our friends that he approves of our decision. But he's a bit like a cat, you know."

John looked puzzled. "In what way?"

"Have you never had a cat?" She asked, and he shook his head. "I had one once, and every time I moved to a new flat, he would hide under the bed for several days. Then he would sneak out and sniff all the furniture. And then, he'd be fine! He just needed time to get used to the new situation. Sherlock needs time, too. So let him hide under the bed for a bit if it helps him." She gave him a parting squeeze and then wandered into the sitting room. John's stood just outside Sherlock's line of sight, wondering what this amazingly understanding woman would do next.

"Hullo, Sherlock," she said cheerfully, seating herself on the coffee table by the detective's head. "How's your day been?"

"John's a tyrant," Sherlock muttered crossly, refusing to open his eyes.

"Really?" Mary's voice was light with amusement. "What horribly tyrannical thing has he done now?"

Sherlock huffed impatiently. "He has hidden my cigarettes. Again. He knows how bored I am! But still, he deprives me of them."

"Hmm," Mary said thoughtfully. "'Person who cares for the health and well-being of others.' That's a different definition of "tyrant" than I've heard before."

"Of course you'd be on HIS side," intoned the aggrieved detective.

Mary's dimples deepened. "I'm on the side of breathing, my dear. You now have two doctors looking after you. You will be the world's healthiest consulting detective."

Sherlock deigned to open his eyes and glared at her now. "Bored!" he cried impatiently, annoyed by her amusement.

She patted his arm soothingly. "There, there. Let's find something to do, then. Here are today's newspapers; I'll read to you."

"John read them already," he said shortly, closing his eyes again.

"And look, under the papers are some cold cases Greg dropped by. I can read those to you."

A hand waved the cold cases again impatiently. "I solved them all. Two's and three's, at best," he grumbled. "Hardly challenging."

"Hmm," Mary said thoughtfully. "Another new definition of tyrant: 'Person who sacrifices his time and possibly his eyesight to read to a bored consulting detective for hours on end in a thankless attempt to entertain him.'" She gently placed a hand on Sherlock's forehead. "Anyway, I don't believe you're really bored. I think you have a nasty headache. Have you eaten anything today? I can't give you pain meds on an empty stomach."

"Not hungry," Sherlock groused, but he opened his eyes again and looked at her with interest rather than hostility this time.

"Oh good lord, Sherlock, here's a full bowl of Mrs Hudson's special chicken soup, untouched!" Mary exclaimed, retrieving the dish from underneath the coffee table. "No wonder you're hungry!"

"It's slimy," Sherlock objected. "And I'm not hungry."

Mary was completely undaunted. "Of course it's slimy; you've let it sit here congealing for who knows how long. I'll be right back." She carried the offending bowl into the kitchen and rolled her eyes at John knowingly. Pulling a frying pan from the cupboard, she set it on the stove.

"Now wait just minute," John objected. "I made you dinner so you wouldn't have to cook tonight!"

Mary paused in her search of the refrigerator to kiss him soundly. "I know! It smells heavenly! Shepherd's pie, isn't it? This is why I'm marrying you—you're a wonderful cook! No one's ever loved me enough to cook for me before!"

John, bemused, watched her melt butter in the frying pan and break eggs into a bowl. "And here I thought you were marrying me because I'm devastatingly good looking," he suggested, matching her cheerful spirits.

"Ah, well. It's true you're a feast for the eyes," Mary grinned. "But the way to this girl's heart is through her stomach! I love shepherd's pie! It's my favourite! This omelette is for Sherlock. I can't give him meds on an empty tummy, now can I? And you know he won't eat the pie. It has carrots in it, and he won't eat orange food."

John sighed. "You'll spoil him, you know," he warned. "He'll think he can get you to do whatever he wants."

Mary shook her head. "I'm not spoiling him; I'm just giving him what he needs. And if he'd been spoilt a bit as a child, he might not feel the need to be so demanding now, don't you think?"

He watched her carry a tray into the sitting room and prod Sherlock to sit up and take a paracetamol with a full glass of water. He shook his head in astonishment as she insinuated a dinner plate onto the detective's lap and prompted him to talk about the cold cases he'd solved that day. As she distracted him with conversation, Sherlock kept absently spearing bits of omelette into his mouth until he'd soon eaten the entire thing. It seemed Mary was determined to mother Sherlock Holmes to within an inch of his life. From what John had gathered over the years, Sherlock's mother had been a genius in her own right and fiercely devoted to her sons. She had given her boys every advantage educationally, and had encouraged them in their several areas of interests and talents. But she had been woefully ignorant of the emotional and social needs of growing boys; they had been quite neglected in that respect. Perhaps Mary's mothering indulgence was just what the doctor ordered for Sherlock.

Mary, who had been listening intently to her friend with occasional intelligent comments, then shooed him off to bed, and soon had him tucked in with cold compresses on his aching head.

000

John settled into the corner of the sofa, reclining diagonally with his feet on the coffee table, perfectly content. His planned dinner had been a success, and now with the washing-up accomplished and Sherlock quiet in his room, they could relax a bit before Mary went home. She wedged herself between him and the sofa-back, her head on his shoulder, and sighed happily.

"You make the loveliest pillow," she told him cheerfully. "That's why I'm marrying you, you know. To be my personal bolster."

"Hmm," he considered her comment seriously. "I thought you were marrying me because of my impressive intellectual prowess."

She shook with silent laughter in his arms. "Don't be ridiculous, darling. How can I rest my weary head against your intellect?" She twisted her head to look up at his face. "So why are you marrying me?" she inquired.

He nuzzled her hair. "I've always had a burning desire to be someone's personal bolster," he told her frankly, "but no one's ever wanted to use me in that capacity before you came along." They laughed together companionably, enjoying the newness of their relationship.

Then Mary sobered. "I need to tell you something, John," she told him seriously. "I ought to have told you this when you proposed, and I'm sorry I didn't. We talked about so many things that night and made so many plans, but this never came up." She sat up straight and looked at him with a pensive expression. "If you change your mind about marrying me, I'll understand."

John was troubled. "Mary, there's nothing you can possibly tell me that would make me change my mind about wanting to spend my life with you. What is it, love? You know you can tell me anything, don't you?"

She drew a deep breath and said it. "I can't have children, John. I was . . . injured . . . when I was sixteen, and the doctors said I'd never be able to conceive."

A maelstrom of emotion surged through John's being as he absorbed this information. He'd long been aware that Mary must have been abused as a child, emotionally and possibly physically. But now he realized she had also been sexually assaulted with such violence that it left permanent physical and psychological damage. Impotent rage against her assailant was rivalled in his mind only by his admiration for her courage and strength in dealing with her past so gracefully. He was besieged with questions that he longed to ask her about her ordeal. But she did not need him to interrogate her. She needed him to reassure her. He pushed his own burning need to know aside; she would tell him about her past when she was ready to speak of it. It was not for him to intrude upon her privacy. It was his privilege now to give her what she really needed.

"I'll understand if having a family is important to you," Mary was saying, misinterpreting his silent struggle. "It's okay if you decide you don't want me after all. . . ."

"There's nothing on this earth more important to me than you," John interrupted gently, pulling her back into his embrace. "Nothing. And it is absolutely impossible for me to stop wanting you. I love you entirely and completely, no matter what."

She sighed and relaxed against him. "I love you so much. You're absolutely perfect, do you know that? I can't imagine how I got so lucky."

Their passionate kiss was interrupted by an insistent clanging noise. John looked at Mary in astonishment. "I can't believe you gave him a bell!" he complained. "We don't need to have children of our own, do we? We have a giant toddler already."

She shrugged apologetically, dimples showing. "Shouting for us if he needed us would have hurt his poor head," she explained. "I'll take care of it. He probably just needs a new cold compress." She climbed over him to hurry into Sherlock's bedroom.

John sighed in resignation, but a new understanding now impressed itself upon him. Mary's maternal attitude towards Sherlock filled subconscious needs in both of them. He was now doubly grateful that fate had brought the three of them together. Because having a family actually was important to him, and it seemed they had now formed a strange little family of their own.


	2. So Much In Common

This chapter takes place the day after the events of "Red Handed".

000

He reviewed the file from Scotland Yard once more as his driver negotiated the limousine to the hospital where John Watson had been taken the day before, after being stabbed by Sherlock Holmes. Mycroft frowned over the arrest reports. The art thief his brother had been chasing was charged with the attempted manslaughter of the unfortunate doctor. But quite honestly, the accident wasn't anyone's fault. The thief could not have known that Sherlock was holding a knife when he shoved John backwards into the detective in a desperate attempt to escape. Sherlock, though foolish to have been looking down at the knife in his hand instead of what was ahead of him, could not have anticipated that the thief would suddenly burst out of the office door and push John into him. John could not have avoided either the shove or the knife. An unfortunate series of events, all in all.

The cypher in the equation was Mary Morstan. Her relationship with his brother's flatmate had been a cause of concern to Mycroft, but the British Government had swiftly dealt with this threat to his brother's well-being by interviewing the young woman within hours of their engagement. She had convincingly reassured him that her intentions were the same as his own: Sherlock's and John's continued partnership was important to her and she was enabling John to quit his job at the medical clinic in order to work with Sherlock full time. Mycroft had tacitly approved of this arrangement. With John as his brother's keeper, Mycroft's life was greatly simplified.

But would Mary's good will towards Sherlock still exist after this shocking display of carelessness on the detective's part? Would any woman feel comfortable with the man she professed to love working day by day in the company of such a loose cannon as Sherlock Holmes? How if she now realized the full extent of the danger John would constantly be subject to and insisted on the two parting ways? Any sane young woman, Mycroft thought, would run, not walk, away from such an intimate association with chaos personified.

Mycroft exited his vehicle at the door of the hospital and took the lift, hoping he was not too late to mend the rift that must certainly have opened between his outrageous brother and John Watson's charming young fiancée. He was ready to use every bit of diplomatic ability of which he was capable for damage control. Sherlock was safer working with John. Their association must be maintained, Mary Morstan's sensibilities notwithstanding.

Hesitating before John's door, he steeled himself for the confrontation. Politicians and diplomats were simple to manipulate: devoted lovers, he had found, were more difficult to negotiate with. Women tended to turn into vicious she-bears in the face of a threat to their loved ones. He regretted this turn of events deeply. In his one encounter with Mary, she had proven herself to be clever, honest, thoughtful, and kind, but not one to suffer fools gladly. He admired her, in spite of himself, and in any other circumstance would enjoy a lively conversation with her. In another life, they could, perhaps, have been . . . friends.

He knocked. At her summons, he opened the door and stepped inside. She looked up at him and gave him a warm and welcoming smile.

"Hullo, Mycroft! How lovely of you to come by and see us."

Mycroft pulled his lips into a smile of his own invention. Warm welcomes, in his experience, portended demands of some kind. Was Mary planning to sue Sherlock? Was she thinking of using this situation to extort money from him? But no, unless his deducing powers had left him entirely, he could see that her friendly greeting was genuine. But then, she was by all accounts a fair-minded young woman. She would not blame the elder brother for the negligence of the younger.

"How is our patient?" he asked suavely, putting on his most sincere look of concern. And the concern was not truly feigned, for Mycroft actually liked John Watson and truly wished no harm to him.

"He's doing well," Mary said. "It'll be a long recovery, but recover he will, thank God."

"I'm gratified to hear it," Mycroft replied in relief. "I can't imagine how distressing it would be to Sherlock to know he had caused permanent harm to his friend by his own hand."

Mary's eyebrows lifted superciliously. "A great many people would be distressed by John's demise, however it came about," she commented calmly. "You might even have shed a tear over his coffin, to have lost the one man in the world who can successfully tell you off." The corner of her mouth trembled in a suppressed smirk. Mycroft felt certain she was not being serious. Was it possible she was teasing him? No one had ever teased Mycroft Holmes before.

John moved restlessly in his sleep, and Mary turned away from her guest to gently soothe him with soft words and loving hands. Mycroft felt uncomfortable, witnessing this intimate display of tenderness. He decided to come to the point so that he could leave the sooner. "Where is Sherlock?" he asked abruptly.

Mary did not turn away from John, but said distractedly, "I sent him home." She was leaning over her fiancé to give him a dose of morphine.

Mycroft's heart fell. So his fears were valid. Mary wanted nothing more to do with the man she had entrusted with her lover's safety and who had failed to keep him from harm. "I am sorry to hear it," he said, and the regret in his voice was genuine. "I had hoped that, as this was clearly an accident, you might be forgiving of my brother's ineptitude and continue to encourage his and John's friendship."

Mary turned back to Mycroft with widened eyes. "Mycroft Holmes!" she cried in consternation. "How long have we known each other now? An entire week, by my accounting! And yet you still don't know me any better than that? I'm very disappointed!" she scolded cheerfully.

Mycroft was taken aback. Mary's dimples had deepened in her amusement and her eyes sparkled with mischief. This was, he realized, what was called 'affectionate teasing'. Such a thing had never happened to him before in all his life. She was completely disarming him.

"I beg your pardon," he began, but she interrupted him.

"I sent Sherlock home because he was exhausted from sitting up with me all night. I managed to sleep a bit here in this chair, but I'm sure he never closed his eyes the entire time he was here. He'll rest a bit, and then he'll come back and sit with John while I go get a break. We're in this together, you see. We're taking care of each other." Disconcertingly, Mary walked right into Mycroft's personal space and took his hand in hers. She led him to the chair and then perched herself on the edge of John's bed.

"There now, that's better," she grinned at his discomfiture as he sat down. "We've really not had much opportunity to get to know each other, have we? We should be great friends, you and I. We have so much in common, after all."

Mycroft blinked. "Have we?" he said bleakly. This was not going at all as he'd pictured. How had things got so out of his control? It was not, he thought, a bad thing. Just . . . odd.

Mary sighed and smiled at him gently. "When people get married, they don't just marry an individual, do they? They marry into a family. I've never had a family of my own, so I'm quite excited about joining John's little family."

"I shouldn't think Harry Watson was anyone to get excited about," Mycroft murmured dryly.

"Hmm," Mary frowned. "I haven't met Harry yet. She's taken it into her head to dislike me, sight unseen. No, I wasn't thinking of Harry when I said that. Sherlock is John's family now. And so, by extension, are you. We should get along famously, you and I—we both love Sherlock and have his best interests at heart."

In spite of himself, Mycroft felt captured in Mary's affectionate web. "I've never been much good at 'family'", he admitted hesitantly.

"And I've never been in one. We'll learn what it means together, shall we?" the irrepressible Mary responded.

"I suppose I have no choice," Mycroft admitted. He knew when he'd been bested. And he wasn't sure he really considered this a defeat. In fact, it felt rather like success.


	3. Mother Hen

This chapter takes place a few days after "Red Handed Recriminations."

000

She sat pensively on the sofa and watched John dozing peacefully in his armchair. Helping to look after a doctor recovering from a stab wound was probably not in the job description of the usual landlady, but Mrs. Hudson had long ago abandoned conventions when it came to her tenants. It did her good to see John sitting up and with good colour in his cheeks, and so she gazed on him to her heart's content while he slept.

Her mind wandered back to that horrible evening over a week ago, when that nice D.I. Lestrade had knocked on her door to tell her the news. She had caught a fleeting glimpse of Sherlock bounding up the stairs, wearing a hospital gown over his trousers and smelling strongly of blood and sweat. As Lestrade explained the situation to her, she found herself growing more and more angry with her boys. Running headlong into danger! Heedlessly chasing desperate criminals! Playing with guns and knives! What did they expect to happen? Of course one of them would meet with catastrophe! And did they give a thought to the anguish their careless actions might cause to those who loved them? Of course not! They did whatever they wanted, didn't they, without any consideration for anyone else.

But then Sherlock had stampeded back downstairs, clean-smelling and still damp from his rushed shower and change, looking like a frightened little boy who knew he'd done wrong and dreaded the consequences. And her motherly heart melted, and she hugged him tightly and assured him everything would be all right.

That kind, handsome D.I. Lestrade had then taken her and Sherlock in his police car back to the hospital to see poor, dear John. There Mary was, eyes red and nose runny, looking exhausted; and there was Molly, red-eyed and concerned; and Mrs. Hudson's blood pressure went up again. Those boys! Always dancing on the edge of calamity! Leaping joyously into danger with both feet, and never thinking to look first! Did they ever consider the worry they caused? What if John had died? What would she and Mary do then? Could those boys not think ahead to the disastrous consequences their chaos might cause?

But then Mary had ushered her into John's room, and she had looked down at that nearly bloodless, unconscious face. And she was a goner. Because she loved her boys with all her capacious, motherly heart, and not even a strong sense of self-preservation was going to change that.

It had been a week of cooking, and of running to hospital and back: baking things she thought Sherlock might be tempted to eat; making sure Mary was fed and allowed time to rest; bringing John soft foods he could easily digest. Because, could she allow them to try to subsist on hospital fare? Of course not! Now it was lovely to have them home again, where she could keep a proper eye on things without wasting hours on travel. Looking after this threesome was a full-time job!

Mary's key was heard in the door and Mrs. Hudson rose to greet the girl.

"Oh, Mrs. H.! I'm so glad to be home! How are our boys getting on?" Mary asked as she hugged the older woman. Mrs. Hudson's heart warmed. _ Our_ boys!

One thing Mrs. Hudson appreciated about Mary was that she was wasn't selfish about John. So many of John's previous lady friends had not been willing to share John's time and affections with anyone else—not with his best friend, and certainly not with his landlady! Mary, however, understood that John was loved by many people and never sought to interfere with the others who had claim to him. In fact, she actively worked to establish relationships of her own with John's friends. Mrs. Hudson found this to be both wise and caring on the young woman's part.

"John's been up and walking several times today," Mrs. Hudson told the young doctor. "He fell asleep there about an hour ago. I tried to get him to go to bed, but . . . ," she shrugged helplessly.

Mary chuckled. "Try getting John to do anything he doesn't want to do," she agreed. "I often wonder how he has the nerve to accuse Sherlock of being stubborn when he's the embodiment of stubborn himself!"

"And Sherlock went off with Greg on a case," Mrs. Hudson continue her report. "I nearly had to push him out the door, but I was determined to get him out of the house, for his own good. He hasn't seen the sun in over a week!"

"Good for you!" Mary praised. "You're quite right, it'll be the best thing for him." She turned her gaze upon her sleeping fiancé. "I hate to wake him, but it's time to change his dressings. Captain," she bent over him and breathed in his ear. "Wake up, Captain. Time to play doctor."

"Mmm," he mumbled and opened his eyes, smiling. "Hello, love. Whatever you say." He got up with effort and bit of help and moved slowly to lie prone on the couch.

Mary turned to Mrs. Hudson and winked. "See, what did I tell you? Try getting him to do anything he doesn't want to do!" She pulled her medical bag out from under the chair and got down to business, cleaning the port of his abdominal drain, changing his bandages, all the while chatting casually about her day. Mrs. Hudson was impressed with the young doctor's professional proficiency. John might have been just another patient to Mary, while the landlady nearly swooned every time she saw that horrid tube coming out of her dear boy's insides.

"There, that's a good boy," Mary teased when she'd finished, and helped him back to his beloved armchair. "You deserve a sweet for such exemplary behaviour." She sat on the arm of his chair and, leaning backwards, lightly kissed him, all professionalism out the window.

John's eyes twinkled with mischief. "I've been exceptionally good all day," he informed her gravely. "I think I deserved a great many more sweets than that!" He pulled her down into his lap with more agility than he ought to have had, given his injury, and kissed her soundly.

"John, stop! You'll pull your stitches," Mary scolded, laughing.

"Might be worth it," he chuckled, kissing her again.

Mrs. Hudson blushed to see such antics. "Really, dears, can't this wait until after dinner? I mean, at my time of life. . . ."

John smiled up at her sheepishly. "Sorry, Mrs. H. I just haven't seen her all day, you know."

Mary extricated herself from him gently and got to her feet. "It's all right, dear. It's just part of his physical therapy," she grinned. The two women went into the kitchen to begin dinner.

"It's so good of you to let me move in, Mrs. H. I know it's not meant to be a three-person flat," Mary said as they worked.

"Oh, it's no trouble, dear. After all, if not for you, poor John would still be stuck in hospital. And to be honest, it's rather nice having another female about the place. There's a bit too much testosterone bounding about than I would like, some days, with the two of them." She said this wistfully, however, unable to mask her feelings. "I expect I'll miss all the carryings-on when there's just Sherlock here with me," she admitted. "I'll miss you both."

"Oh, Mrs. Hudson!" Mary cried tenderly, putting her arms around the older woman. "I'm not taking him away from you! He'll be here every day, working with Sherlock and helping you out around the house, just as usual," she assured her. "And I'll be here a great deal as well. You'll likely get to dread the very sight of me, I'll be here so often!"

"You might think so, dear," Mrs. Hudson said practically. "But marriage changes people. Old friends just sort of fade away and you make a new life for yourselves."

"Not going to happen!" Mary declared staunchly. "Anyway, you're not 'old friends'; you're family! You can't get rid of family, can you? Not even if you want to!"

"I suppose not, dear," Mrs. Hudson conceded, but she was unconvinced. She'd lived a long time. She'd seen it happen over and over again.

"Which reminds me," Mary went on. "You know I lost my mother when I was very young. I've had to celebrate every milestone of my life without a mother to share them with me. And I've had quite enough of that! Most girls get to plan their weddings with their mothers: would you consider helping me to plan mine? It would make me so happy if you would."

"Oh, my." Mrs. Hudson gasped. "I would be honoured, dear. I'm very touched that you want me to." She dabbed at the tears that sprang into her eyes. Perhaps Mary was right; perhaps she wouldn't have to learn to live without John and Mary in her life. Mary seemed determined to keep the little family together, didn't she? "Have you set a date?"

"We were thinking of having it in five weeks' time. John should be recovered enough by then," Mary told her. "I have three weeks' vacation coming to me, and John has had to quit his job already, due to the Accident. We'd like to have the reception as a picnic in Regent's Park. . . ." On she went, asking her landlady's opinion on flowers and food and dresses and music.

Five weeks! Mrs. Hudson's brain shifted into over-drive as she began thinking of all the details that would need to be seen to in such a short amount of time. "Here's what we need to do first, dear," she began. And so they spent the rest of the evening finishing dinner, making lists, and chatting as if they'd known each other forever. It was a warm and comfortable feeling, very much like being part of a family. Mrs. Hudson thought she could easily get used to it.


	4. By Any Other Name

This chapter takes place two days before John and Mary's wedding, immediately following the chapter entitled "Typical Evening" in the story called "Making Friends and Forming Alliances."

000

He made himself comfortable in Sherlock's armchair before the fire in the Baker Street flat, feeling more at home here than he had in any place for some time. Greg Lestrade had given up his house to his ex-wife when she'd divorced him, and the little bed-sit he'd lived in since was never home. Of course, Baker Street had never seemed like home before, either—more like a Little Shoppe of Horrors—until Mary Morstan had moved in to care for the recovering John. Now it seemed cosy and warm and good to sit here, listening to Sherlock and Molly murmuring over mysterious experiments on the kitchen table and Mrs. Hudson and Mary rattling dishes as they cleaned up after dinner. John, having just taken his evening pain reliever, dozed peacefully in his own armchair across from Greg with a softly whiffling snore.

When Mary had called him that afternoon with an "anonymous tip" concerning a murder, Greg had not questioned it but investigated immediately. It seemed that Mary and Molly's house-breaking exploits that day had unearthed a nearly perfect crime, one the police had utterly overlooked. Greg had not been able to wait to congratulate the young women, arriving just as the little Baker Street family were starting dinner. He'd been warmly welcomed and invited to stay. And now dinner was over, and he was left sitting by the fire while the others went about their business, pleasantly ignored as if he belonged there as a part of the family rather than a guest that needed entertaining. He knew this was due to Mary's open and affectionate nature. He and Sherlock had been colleagues for years, and he and John had become close mates; but Mary pulled them together into a family of sorts, and had done it in an amazingly short period of time.

It had been less than a year ago that he had first met Mary at a crime scene. Sherlock and John were investigating the mystery surrounding her father, who had disappeared ten years earlier; Scotland Yard had been called in as evidence developed that the man had been murdered. Mary had impressed Greg with her cheerful warmth and irrepressible courage during the investigation; but while filling in the official reports, he discovered something that drew him to her even more. Mary had been born on the same day as his Rose. Not just the same date; the same, exact day as his own daughter, twenty-six years before.

His little Rose, with her shining blond hair and mischievous blue eyes, with her indomitable, adventuresome, and utterly fearless spirit, seemed to come alive again in Mary Morstan. Greg had no doubt in his mind that, had Rose lived, she would be just the sort of young woman that Mary was. Sometimes that certain knowledge brought back the pain of loss in a fresh flood of grief that felt akin to drowning. But more often, it filled him with an inexplicable joy, as if he were privileged now to see what could have been, had life been kinder.

As he learned more of Mary's life, the contrasting parallels continued to confound him. While his little four-year-old Rose was going through the terrifying series of tests to help the doctors learn why she was in so much pain, little Mary was experiencing the painful loss of her mother. While Greg took an extended leave of absence in order to spend every possible moment with his little girl, Mary's father withdrew his affections and pushed his daughter away. Even as Greg, against the doctors' advice and even his own wife's wishes, refused to put Rose into hospice but spent a fortune in medical devices and in-home care in order to keep his baby close to him, taking on much of her care himself; Mary's father was making plans to send his baby girl half-way across the globe into the dubious care of strangers. Six-year-old Rose had died in her father's trembling arms, safe and loved and wanted and cared for; that same day, Mary's father had put her, alone, on a plane to England, never to see his little girl again. Greg could not comprehend the man. How could Matthew Morstan have sent his only child away so deliberately, when Greg Lestrade would have fought off legions with his bare hands to keep his precious girl close to his side? "Rosemary", he always thought of her, in the privacy of his own mind. "That's for remembrance. Pray you, love, remember."*

Now Mary stepped lightly into the sitting room, tray in hand, and served Greg tea and biscuits with a warm, cheerful expression. She gestured towards her fiancé with a wink. "Not much company tonight, is he?"

"It's companionable enough, just sitting here," Greg confessed, looking self-consciously into the fire.

Mary settled onto the rug between the armchairs, her own cup in hand. "Tuppence for your thoughts," she smiled.

He looked at her sombrely, wondering if it were permissible to be open with this young woman. "My daughter Rose would be just your age. You and she share a birthday."

Mary looked at him compassionately. "What happened to her?" she asked softly.

"Cancer. Inoperable brain tumour," he said abruptly. He didn't like thinking about his Rose that way. He liked remembering her as she was before she was ill—energetic, full of mischief, exuberantly alive. "She died when she was six."

He could see that Mary could read between the lines and see all the grief and loss behind his simple statement. She put a gentle hand on his arm. "I'm so sorry. I know what it's like to lose ones we love, but the loss of a child must be the worst of all."

A companionable silence fell between them. Then, for the first time in twenty years, Greg felt able to talk about his daughter. He and his ex—well, that was one of the things that had made his marriage fall apart, wasn't it? They just couldn't talk about Rose. It was as if she'd never existed for them. But he found himself able to pour out his grief to Mary, who also knew sorrow as a lifetime companion and understood his loss. And then, to his relief, he was able to share with her some of the joyous memories of his little girl—things he'd never spoken of for so very, very long.

"I imagine Rose and I would have been great chums," Mary smiled as he told of some of his daughter's wilder exploits, before she'd become too ill to have adventures. "I wish I could have known her. Wouldn't it be lovely if we could have grown up together?"

Greg nodded. He wished this, too. Then shyly, he added, "I wish we'd known you then. Maybe we could have looked after you, when you came to England alone."

Mary looked wistful. "You'd have made a much better father than mine ever did," she agreed. "I wonder what I might be like now, if you'd been my father instead of him."

John chose this moment to rouse himself from his drugged state. "Who's whose father?" he muttered in confusion.

Mary chuckled. "Fancy this, Captain. Greg's daughter Rose and I share a birthday. I was wondering what it would have been like had we changed places."

"You'd certainly have been better off. Matthew Morstan was a bloody monster!" John declared darkly.

Mary leaned against John's knee. "I've sometimes wondered what it might have been like to grow up in a stable, loving family." She looked up at her fiancé fondly. "Would you still want to marry me if I were called Rose Lestrade?"

"That which we call a Rose, by any other name would smell as sweet,"* John smiled gently. Greg was gratified that he was not the only man who quoted Shakespeare when delving into sentiment. However, the allotted time for sentiment was now long over. What he needed to know now was how John would react to his friend harbouring paternal feelings towards his intended, and then he must really stop wallowing in the past.

"John Watson, what on earth makes you think I'd let any daughter of mine anywhere near an old rogue like you?" he said dryly, and looked his friend in the eye with amusement.

John chuckled. "You'd be grossly negligent if you did," he admitted cheerfully. "I supposed I'd just have to work round you."

"I would have to rebel," Mary sighed dramatically, falling into the spirit of deliberate levity. "We would be forced to elope; but then you'd eventually come round to accepting the inevitable. And we'd all live happily ever after."

"Elopement would be an unnecessary deception," Sherlock put in, never looking up from his microscope, "as it is obvious that Lestrade would give in to whatever Mary wanted with little hesitation."

Greg was momentarily startled. He'd somehow forgotten as he had talked with Mary that there were others in the flat. Now he had to decide whether he minded that the others all knew his most personal business.

And he found he really didn't mind. After all, isn't sharing what families are for?

000

*Greg is quoting from "Hamlet"—from Ophelia's speech mourning her father's death—a bit of turn-about.

*John is quoting from "Romeo and Juliet"—from Juliet's speech as she tries to persuade Romeo to leave his family for her sake.


End file.
